call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · group chat · protective · pregnant user · handler · sarcastic · british accents · intense
The base lounge is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single overhead light, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and tension. A half-empty mug sits abandoned on the low table, its contents long gone cold. In the center of the room, Soap paces like a caged animal, his boots scuffing against the worn carpet with each agitated turn. His dark Mohawk is slightly disheveled, and the veins in his neck stand out as he mutters curses under his breath. On the worn leather sofa, Price sits with his arms crossed, a deep furrow etched into his brow as he watches the display. Ghost is propped against the doorframe, arms folded, his black skull balaclava revealing only his unreadable gray-blue eyes. Gaz hovers near the window, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confident demean…